Good Morning!
by MerciaLachesis
Summary: Yeah, this really is the best way to wake up. (It's only until he sits up properly that Tony has the Regrets .) / Prompt fill: Your hangover cure couldn't possibly beat mine


**Prompt:** _Your hangover cure couldn't possibly beat mine_  
 **Pairing:** FrostIron

* * *

Tony wakes up in the best way possible. Naked, a cool breeze from the open window, drifting over his nether regions, and another set of limbs tangled alongside him. And, of course, no memory of at least the past seven events leading back from this.

Bliss.

He hums to himself idly, some song he can't remember the name of, and stares up at the ceiling for a moment before his eyes drift to the expanse of soft, pale skin beside him. They've got their back turned to him, whoever it is, but the sheets have slipped down enough that Tony can leer at the curve leading down to their ass. Probably a good ass too, since he's never known for drunk Tony to have a bad taste (aesthetically, of course, not morally.)

Tony's Mystery Hottie — because Tony is creative and a genius, and calling them The Person is just so _dull_ — moans softly and mutters something unintelligible, still asleep. And, Tony has to admit, it's kind of adorable.

Inky black hair spills down the next pillow over in little ringlets and curls. Absently, he twirls a strand in his fingers, marveling at the silky texture of it.

Yeah, this really is the best way to wake up.

It's only until he sits up properly that Tony has the Regrets™. As always.

His braid feels simultaneously boiled and frozen and his head is too heavy for his neck and being squeezed by some unknown force and — yikes! — suddenly the light from outside is too bright and glaring like it's pressing down physically on his eyeballs, and his ears feel like someone's passed a needle through them, and even his satin sheets feel way too itchy on his skin and —

Yeah, he sees what Pepper meant when she said he was kinda a drama queen.

Kinda.

Beside him, Tony's Mystery Hottie, shifts. And Tony stills, holding his breath.

Okay. He has two options here.

One: he could flee. It's terrible when morning afters are awkward as hell, and Tony's had some rather traumatic experiences with those, and not just with his crazy fangirls. For example, once a guy woke up and screamed the fucking roof down because he hadn't realised he wasn't as heterosexual as he once thought (though, admittedly that had been both amusing and a little flattering.) So yeah, fleeing is the low risk, but equally low benefit option.

Two: he could stay. Maybe have some morning after sexy times. Higher the risk, but also higher chances of things getting _risqué_ (if you know what he means.)

He weighs both options silently (and thank God he's a genius because who knows how normals think through these dilemmas with a hangover?).

Stay or flee… stay or flee…

Tony knows, though, the best way to solve dilemmas (both situational and ethical) is with a little thinking juice. And there's an open bottle of whiskey right there, just a few paces from his table.

Just a few paces… just a few paces… just a few paces and far, far, _far_ , too far away.

However, Tony is an Avenger, and he's _The_ Iron Man (all caps). He's a fucking superhero, for fuck sake! He can do this.

He squeezes his eyes shut, just to block out everything for a few seconds, bracing himself, before willing his muscles to move him from the bed and towards his goal.

The mattress _creaks_. (Which is annoying because Tony's paid for the highest quality of mattresses almost specifically for this reason.)

And oh _fuck_.

Tony can only watch in horror as Tony's Mystery Hottie turns his body around, yawns, and stretches, and two startlingly vivid eyes of green blink and flutter open.

Nevermind.

Apparently drunk Tony actually has the _worst_ taste. The worst taste ever. Tony doesn't think he's ever regretted his drunk self's judgment (or lack of) so much.

Fuck. Shit. Shitty fuck shitting shit fuckity fuck.

Fuck.

Tony is probably in shock right now. Does he need a shock blanket or something? Is that an appropriate response to this sort of thing?

Because Tony is staring into the green eyes (and they are _so_ green) of Loki, god of Mischief, ex-supervillain of currently dubious status and the guy who threw him out of a window, once upon a time(which is a kind of different type of foreplay than Tony prefers). And Loki stares back.

At least, a small portion (a very small portion — probably the part which caused this in the first place) of his brain says, he can't say Loki isn't aesthetically tasteful. Because he is. Most certainly. Very tasteful.

Like, wooooooh, Thor's lil bro is kind of a freaking masterpiece. Like, really, really beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. Those eyes (emerald and light shining through rainforest leaves kind of green); those cheekbones(so sharp and chiseled he could probably sharpen a blade with them); that… everything. Even the weirdly symmetrical geometric shaped scars lining his skin. And did he mention the eyes? Talk about _magical_.

And _shut up_ , he thinks to himself viciously, _shut up shut up shut up._

Also, his ever so helpful mind adds, they are both stark (ha) naked.

Loki coughs. "Well," begins the god, looking just as appalled as Tony feels (which is not insulting in the least, because Tony totally doesn't care about Loki's opinion of him), "this is, ah, awkward, shall we say?"

Tony snorts, "Yeah, let's say." And then he groans; because ugh speaking, and ugh hangovers. A terrible combination. Would not recommend.

Surprisingly, an odd look of sympathy passes over Loki's face. Which is really, really weird, and actually kinda disorientating. A supervillain feeling _sympathy_ — who'da thunk it?

"Is it a — what do you Midgardians call it? A hanging over? Hangover?" he says, voice strangely soothing. Accents do that, somehow.

"Yeah, hangovers," he grunts, unsure. Because what is he doing, replying to this guy? "You got one too?"

Loki winces, the expression somehow looking beautiful on his infuriatingly perfect face. "No. Though I am considered something of a lightweight, hangovers seem to miss me, thankfully," he replies, shaking his head.

Bastard.

"If you would like, Stark," continues Loki amicably (which is not a term he thought he'd ever use to describe _Loki_ ), "I could remedy that for you. Keep your mind off of it."

He shivers. Because, um, fuck no? He is _not_ going to allow Loki to work his freaky glowy shit on his mind. No siree. He is not gonna let any of that fucking touch him.

"No thanks," he manages. "I'm good. I've got my own miracle hangover cure," and he gestures to the whiskey on the table, "But thanks. Loki."

"Suit yourself," shrugs Loki amusedly, arching an eyebrow. "But I can assure you, your miracle hangover cure couldn't possibly beat mine."

Tony frowns. "I'm not gonna let your mind-magicky stuff touch me, okay?" he says, but feels himself leaning inexplicably closer.

Loki's tongue darts out to wet his lips. A puff of hot air passes between them. There's a light flush of pink dusting his cheeks, and those green eyes stare back at him through long dark lashes, drawing him in almost magnetically. The god _smirks._

"Oh, that wasn't the kind of cure I was talking about. Trust me."


End file.
